


Monsters at Our Backs

by thejabberwock



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Betrayal, Blowjobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Casino Royale, Clothed Sex, Deceit, Discussions of Suicide, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Forgiveness, Frottage, Fucking, Guilt, M/M, Quantum of Solace, Reconciliation, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Trauma, Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejabberwock/pseuds/thejabberwock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Q betrays him, Bond pulls him from the water and breathes him back to life. And then he walks away and doesn't look back. <i>Casino Royale/Quantum of Solace AU</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters at Our Backs

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by this excerpt from Richard Siken's Crush: "The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't stitched up quite right."
> 
> (this is a casino royale/quantum AU)
> 
> (recognizable dialogue taken from the movies and scripts)

~00Q~

"Come on, damn it," Bond rasps as he compresses Q's chest, trying desperately to make him breathe again. "Come on, Q, _breathe_. Please breathe. _Please_."

His lungs must be filled with water, but he can't be dead. He can't be dead. He can't be.

Bond's hands are shaking as he forces Q's lips apart, opening his airway and suctioning their mouths together. Just like he's certified to do–from the first day of training. Two breaths in, back to compressions, two breaths in, back to compressions, two breaths in–

With a great, gasping cough, the water is expelled from Q's lungs and his eyes open.

Bond stares at him, water dripping down his face, obscuring the tears. Q is blinking, confusion sliding slowly from his eyes. Replaced by awakening horror. Bond swallows, clamps his lips tight together, the immediate need to hold him overlaid by a fury that frightens him.

He turns his face away, fingers digging into his thighs as he tries to bring his harsh breaths under control.

There isn't anyone around them, just the sunken building and the water. He stares at the landscape, not seeing it. He can hear Q moving behind him but Bond's jaw aches and he can't turn around.

There's a glint of silver in the sunlight. Bond's attention drifts to it slowly. To a case, tucked neatly into a man's hand as he walks quickly away from them. The silver case that Q was carrying from the bank.

With the one hundred and fifteen million pounds, which rightfully belong to the British government.

He's on his feet before he consciously decides to be, moving toward the man who Q was apparently working for. The man who locked Q in a cage that nearly drowned him.

He moves swiftly, weaving between broken concrete and jumping over the detritus littering the walkways. Just as he's about to tackle his quarry, the man turns, a gun aiming right at Bond's face. But the fury is an inferno now and he lashes out, knocks the gun from his hand with a snarl and lands a fist to his chin.

Blood spatters across the pavement, but the man barely stumbles. He lifts the case and attempts to bludgeon Bond with it. Bond hardly feels it through the blinding rage. He comes back with more force behind his next punch, the frenzy building every time he connects; forces his opponent back until he finally topples the nameless man to the ground.

Bond follows, and every bit of his anger is pummeled into the man's face; over and over until there's nothing left but a lifeless body. And even then he doesn't stop. There's a dim awareness of Q's voice, growing stronger, but the fight peters out slowly, draining away bit by bit. And then Bond is staring blankly at the smashed face of an enemy he doesn't even recognize.

A familiar hand touches his back and he breathes in, slowly. Reaches out and curls his fingers around whatever piece of Q he finds. Fabric and skin, gripping so tightly he can feel his heartbeat pulsing in his fingers. He wonders if Q will kill him and finds he doesn't care.

He stares at the silver case, sitting just out of reach. The gun is close as well, perfectly functional. But Q doesn't move toward it either, doesn't do anything but sit there with his wrist caught.

"Take it," Bond says, voice so hoarse he doesn't recognize it as his own. He's not sure to which he's referring.

"James–"

Bond drops his wrist. He's still shaking, and there are sirens in the distance. Chest heaving, he stumbles up and turns away, not knowing what Q will do. Not caring. But the sirens are moving closer.

He walks away from the wreckage and doesn't look back.

\--

"Why should I need more time?" Bond asks, ignoring the dull ache in his chest. "The job's done. The bastard's dead."

"James." M's voice is soft with a compassion he doesn't want. "Did you ever ask yourself why you weren't killed that night? Isn't it obvious? He made a deal to spare your life in exchange for the money. I'm sure he hoped they would let him live." A pause while Bond lets the words play over in his head. "But he must have known he was going to his death."

But Q isn't dead. He's alive. At least, he was when Bond left him. The ache sharpens for a moment, and he hates himself a little more. Not knowing where Q is, even after he pretended, for all those weeks.

He thinks of Q's voice, high with surprise as he asked, "You love me?"

And Bond, naked in every way possible, asking if it was enough.

Not enough, not when every bit of it, every word Q ever said to him was a lie.

Bond lets his breath out slowly and focuses on M's voice.

"And now we'll never know who was behind it," she's saying. "Even with the money where it belongs, we have no more information than we did. The trail's gone cold."

Bond almost asks her to repeat that but he stops himself just in time. _The money where it belongs_.

"At least we know why a new quartermaster would be so eager for a field assignment," she adds, the recrimination heavy in her voice.

"Yes," Bond answers without processing her words. His mind is still turning over the revelation about the money. She reminds him she expects to see him back in a week and disconnects the call.

Bond listens to the silence as he stares out over the ocean.

\--

He doesn't go looking for Q, but he finds him nonetheless. In a café at dusk. Their eyes meet as they've done so many times. Across the hotel's grand game room while Bond played poker, across the bow of their ship as he steered them to a new port, the bed when they woke in the morning, smiles lazy as they found their way back to each other.

Bond looks away first, turning to answer the server's question about his choice of drink as she shows him to a table. She nods before moving on to the closest patron, who happens to be Q.

He orders more tea, his fingers moving restlessly atop a creased photograph. A man's face, beaten and swollen–drowned, most likely.

Q's lifeless face rises to the surface of Bond's thoughts. His jaw tightens with the memory. But Q isn't dead. He's sitting right here, less than a metre from him. And he hasn't looked away.

Bond takes a sip of his freshly-delivered martini and says, "Your boyfriend is dead."

It's a cruelty, but there are crueler things.

Q's eyes are bright behind his glasses. "I know." His voice is raw. He sounds nothing like the man who laughingly threw a pillow at Bond's head two days ago. "They figured it out, then?" he asks. His hand touches down on the teacup, without thanking the waitress for the refill, his eyes never leaving Bond's. "M-"

"Regrets trusting you."

Q looks away. His fingers are agitated where he holds the cup. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "If I could have told you-"

"You could have told me," Bond says flatly.

Q shakes his head. His knuckles press into the picture of the bloodied, drowned face-the boyfriend, Bond realises dully. "They blackmailed me," Q says through the hoarseness. "They threatened to kill him. I had no choice."

Bond forgets sometimes that the average person feels differently about threats of bodily harm, but he hasn't forgotten that the sight of a dead man put Q into a near-catatonic state, sitting in a shower fully clothed. Even after Bond joined him, he preferred the shelter of Bond's arms to the more sensible option of dry clothing and a warm bed.

He says anyway, "You had a choice."

Q brings his head up; his lashes are wet. "I did make a choice," he agrees shakily. "I told them I would give them the money if they let you live."

The words score Bond's insides, make the ache more pronounced. He already knew it, but the thought that Q would-

"You're an idiot if you really believed they would let me live," he says, the words coming out higher than he intends. He swallows down the residual hysteria and turns his face away.

"I know," Q whsipers. "But you were there… on the floor, tied up and I couldn't—" His voice breaks.

Bond is clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth are vibrating. He hears Q take a tremulous breath. "As long as you were safe," he finally whispers. "I didn't care about anything else—"

Bond stands abruptly, the chair scraping along the pavement. He fumbles for his wallet and tosses several notes down, not stopping to count them before he turns toward the docks.

Q's chair scrapes as well, but Bond doesn't stop. Not even when Q catches up with him. "I know I have no right to say anything to you—"

"Then don't."

"James, if you'll only—"

Bond pivots, startling Q back a step. "Go back to London," he says harshly. "Or wherever the hell you came from. Just go."

Q stares at him, blinking rapidly. But he nods, whatever little hope he might have felt draining from his face. "All right," he breathes. "All right."

Bond looks away, over the waves rocking the boats gently along the dock. They're only a few metres from the boat they shared for so many weeks. It's darker now, the sun already slipping beneath the horizon. "If you need…" He tries to swallow past the pulse in his throat. Q's phone is still heavy in his pocket. His passport and wallet, along with the rest of his belongings, are on the boat.

Even if every bit of it was a lie, Bond can't strand him here.

He takes the phone from his pocket and offers it to Q without looking at him. "The other things are on the boat." It's the best he can manage.

Q's hoarse gratitude is nearly lost to the lapping waves.

Bond nods sharply and resumes his course to the boat, Q a few steps behind now. With only a metre left to traverse, an explosion lights the sky and knocks them off their feet.

As soon as he hits the ground, instinctively, Bond curls his body around Q's, shielding him from the shrapnel flying through the air, the bits of burnt wood and metal. A sharp edge catches his back, slicing through his thin shirt and making him grunt. But he doesn't move and after a moment, he twists, not at all surprised to find their boat in flames.

Bond turns back to Q, voice gruff as he demands, "Are you all right?"

Q is blinking, dazed, but otherwise unharmed. "Y-yes?"

"Come on," Bond grits, ignoring the pain in his back as he stands. "We need to get out of here. _Now_."

Q, unsurprisingly, is stunned, and it's an effort to get him up and on his feet but he comes where he's pulled, into the shadows, feet stumbling but not hesitating to go where Bond leads. That, at least, wasn't a part he was playing.

There are people gathering, some yelling, others still dazed on the ground. Bond has no real idea where they're going, but the darkness is their cover in the first few moments, until Bond decides the boat at the end of the dock, farthest from the explosion, is going to be their escape.

It's a simple matter to skirt the gawkers, and the shop owners, who are emerging from their work. The sound of the sirens waking sends Bond's mind back two days ago, to Q's face as he lay, lifeless on the stone.

He shoves the memory away, catches Q's hand to steer him toward the boat. They're well away from the crowd now, mostly hidden from view. The boat is likely deserted, but Bond takes his gun from its holster, gestures with his head for Q to get behind him as he presses himself against one of the dock's wooden poles.

A pause to make sure Q obeys and then he's moving forward, careful as he steps onto the boat.

Once he's certain it's clear, he works quickly to free it from the dock. They fall into their usual patterns, Q assisting, and taking over navigations as Bond steers them silently into the night. There are other boats about, some of them blissfully unaware of the chaos on the docks, and others moving toward it.

No one pays them any mind.

"Do you think…" Q ventures, hushed even though there's no one to hear them.

"I don't know which one of us that was meant for. Possibly both of us." He pauses, but the ache isn't important right now. "If they suspected we were together."

Q is quiet, eyes scanning the darkness, the dots of light along the shoreline as they drift out to the open sea. "He knew," he says finally. "The man who shot Le Chiffre. He knew how I felt."

"Well, you're an excellent liar."

They've moved far enough away from the docks now. They're completely alone.

"I wasn't lying when I said I loved you," Q says softly.

"I don't care."

Silence greets Bond's lie, and after that, there's nothing more to say.

\--

"I found a medical kit."

Bond doesn't look up from his attempt to swab the cut on his shoulder. It's difficult with only his reflection to guide him, but he's managed worse.

"You need stitches," Q adds, just as hesitant.

"I'll manage," Bond tells him, winces as he twists to get better light. But Q doesn't leave. Bond can hear his quiet breaths. He drops his shoulder, carefully, and turns his back to allow Q a clear view. It's only a few stitches, Q just a nurse.

He tenses at the touch of Q's fingers and Q withdraws immediately.

Bond is trying not to look at his reflection in the mirror, but it's impossible. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, his face thin. Bond wonders if he's been eating.

Without a wallet, it seems unlikely.

"There's food in the hold," Bond says, startling Q without meaning to. He's staring at Bond's shoulder, but his eyes snap up to meet Bond's in the mirror. He nods and looks away, to the kit as he takes out what he needs.

"There isn't anything to use as a numbing agent…"

"Just do it," Bond grunts. He grits his teeth as Q cleans the wound thoroughly and sews his skin back together. The dull throb helps to keep his mind away from the last time Q touched him, the way he pressed his face to Bond's hand before he threw himself against the back wall of the cage and let his lungs fill with water.

"James?"

Bond realises his breaths are uneven when he hears the anxious query. He can't stop it though, not even as he pulls away. He has no idea if Q has even finished but he doesn't care. He stumbles up the stairs and onto the deck, the sunlight momentarily blinding him. But he finds the rail without really seeing it and tries to stop the shaking.

He's still standing there when Q's footsteps echo behind him. Q doesn't say anything for a long time, long enough for Bond to get the tremors under control. And when he does finally speak, it's unsteady. "We'll be in Calabria tomorrow. I'll go then."

Bond tries to swallow, find a response of some kind.

"I'll turn myself into M—"

"She thinks you're dead."

Silence, stretching outward; perpetually for them now it seems.

But Q touches his arm, a broken whisper, "James, I—"

Bond turns; takes Q's face roughly between his hands and kisses him. Q makes a wet noise as he catches at his arms and lets him in, doesn't protest the sharp bite of Bond's teeth or the tightening hold.

Doesn't protest when Bond pushes him back against the wall enclosing the stairwell. He pins Q's wrists above his head, grip bruising and kisses him until Q has to tear his mouth away to suck in a breath. Bond pulls him back. He doesn't have to think this way, doesn't have to remember how vulnerable he allowed himself to be, for the first time in his life. Doesn't have to think about the gentle kisses or the soft caresses.

It's just teeth and tongue and Bond grinding against Q's erection.

None of it matters.

Bond comes first, his orgasm tearing through him; the high moving his teeth to Q's neck, where he bites down hard enough that Q cries out.

The high wanes just as quickly, leaves him shaking and cold.

It takes a moment for him to realise it's Q who's trembling. The ache, and a burning guilt he doesn't stop to examine, takes over his chest again and Bond turns away, takes the unsteady path back to the rail. He doesn't even know if Q came as well, doesn't know what the hell he was thinking.

He doesn't turn around, just grips the rail tighter and watches the waves.

\--

Q is in the cabin when he eventually goes down for a change of clothes. Bond finds he can't look at him, reroutes to the stateroom to look for clean trousers and pants—thankfully whoever owns this boat is similar in build.

When he emerges, Q says, "I found a computer." The strained words sound like a herculean effort. "Two, actually…"

Bond waits, halfway to the stairs.

"I hacked into the registry system—for the boat. If anyone comes looking, they'll see it's licensed to you. And I wanted to give you this…"

Bond turns enough to see a USB stick in his hand.

"It's everything I could find about Le Chiffre… and whoever he might have been working with. There wasn't much and I realise you can't trust me..."

"M will have people on it already."

"Yes, of course," Q agrees softly. The data stick is curled into his fist. "The man who killed Le Chiffre called one of his men Haines. I think," he adds, his fingers tightening and Bond wishes he knew his tells. "It's vague, my memory of that night."

A dead end, M said. Three days ago, they didn't have a name.

A name, about which Q may or may not be lying. But Q isn't a double agent. He was using Bond for his boyfriend's life, nothing more.

"Did you plan your abduction with them?" Bond asks, his voice bitter with the memory of Le Chiffre torturing him.

Q looks genuinely confused, but then he seemed genuine about everything else as well.

"The men who shot him were surprised to find me there," Q says, and still there are no recognizable tells. "It wasn't Le Chiffre… he wasn't the one who wanted my help—"

Bond turns away. "I'll give the name to M," he says before he goes back up the stairs. The sun is waning, the ocean pulling them closer to port. Perhaps, with information will come a destination. A flight to somewhere that will put him closer to discovering who was pulling Le Chiffre's strings.

To discovering who lured Q to that abandoned building.

And once discovered, the strings can be cut.

Bond pulls his phone from his pocket and dials the office.

He's put through immediately to M, who forgoes the greeting to ask, "Where are you?"

"I have a surname," Bond answers. "Haines. May have been with the man who killed Le Chiffre."

"Guy Haines," M answers, unsurprised. "We've already run his name. After his body was recovered from the ruins of the building in Venice."

The man Bond killed with his fists.

"His face was unrecognizable," Tanner interjects, her constant shadow. "But we managed fingerprints."

"Not your usual finesse," M adds quietly, suggestive in a way that catches Bond's attention.

"Won't happen again."

A pause before she says, "There were no other bodies to be recovered."

"No," Bond agrees as he watches the moon cast its light on the water. "Did you find anything on Haines?"

The pause is telling. So is the fact that she orders, "Don't go looking for whoever started this, James."

"Why would I?" he asks, flippant.

"It would be a pretty cold bastard that didn't want revenge for the death of the person he loved."

Just because Q isn't dead doesn't mean she isn't right. But he says anyway, "You don't have to worry about me. It isn't important."

M's silence is heavy. After a moment, she says, "You were right about Mathis. He was working for Le Chiffre. Neither of them knew anything about the quartermaster." Another pause. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Bond shifts his gaze to the water and his voice is rough this time when he lies, "Yes." He's relieved, although it makes no difference. It's simply one truth in an ocean of lies.

"When can we expect you back?" M asks, her voice brisk again.

"Soon." Not to London though, not unless the dead Mr Haines gives him a reason to be. He's almost certain M can hear the lie, but her tells are difficult to parse over a phone connection.

"A week," she says firmly, and that he understands perfectly. "After that I'll assume you've lost your way."

He's allowed only a "Yes, Ma'am," before she disconnects.

Bond folds the phone into his palm, sets his knuckles against the navigational panel. Whoever was behind Mr Haines is the person he needs to find. He can access 6's files easily. But as soon as he does, they'll trace him, and just now, that isn't the game he wants to play.

He turns, considering the stairs. Q won't be traced. As quartermaster, it was his job to be untraceable. A job he only held for a matter of weeks, but Bond has seen this particular talent at work.

The question of whether or not he can trust Q...

_They blackmailed him. Threatening to kill his boyfriend unless he cooperated._

M's words line up in his mind, waiting to be analysed; dissected. But there's nothing to decipher. Nothing to discover beyond the facts. Pored over in meticulous detail by M. Her recrimination wouldn't have allowed anything else.

Q was blackmailed. It fits every one of their interactions. His prickly demeanor on the train, the slightly manic desperation that Bond win the poker game, that damn watch he kept touching like a talisman.

Every action that of a man fearing for his lover's life.

A fear Bond understands all too well.

Bond draws in a slow breath. He pushes it out again; a vain attempt to expel the ache.

But knowing that Q didn't set out to betray him doesn't help.

Nothing will.

Finding a perverse sort of comfort in that, Bond wills the tension from his shoulders, straightens and goes below deck.

He stops when he sees Q, bare from the waist up, grimacing as he examines red welts on his wrists. The immediacy of the anger that squeezes his chest surprises him. "What happened?" he demands and Q's head whips up.

He's blinking, squinting in confused study at the query. There's a dust of pink on his cheeks as he looks down again and it takes that long for Bond to understand it was his own fingers that made those marks. Gripping Q's wrist with enough force to bruise him.

The anger burns to guilt, shame following in its wake. "Q…"

"It's quite all right," Q tells him, back turned as he picks up a jumper from the bed and pulls it briskly over his head. It's entirely too large, meant for someone Bond's size. Just like the trousers he's belted tight at the waist.

"I think I should go back to London for debriefing," he says as he tugs at the sleeves before turning to gather up his discarded clothing. "I know M thinks I'm dead, but I have information that may be useful. Whatever consequences she deems appropriate—"

"She doesn't blame you."

"I betrayed her. And everyone else."

Bond watches him folding the trousers that are probably stained with cum. "She won't blame you for being blackmailed."

Q tenses. "But you do."

"Not for that."

Q doesn't say anything but Bond can see his throat jerking as he swallows. Standing there, his entire body coiled tight like a wire as he re-folds trousers that don't need to be folded, and Bond wishes things were different. Wants to go back to before he understood that Q was full of secrets.

Before he knew Q was capable of deceit.

"I need your help," Bond says, the words emerging in calm juxtaposition. Q turns his head, confusion etching lines in his face. Bond taps the computer, still open on the desk. "M already had Haines' name. He was the man I killed in Venice."

Q flinches at the reminder that Bond is a remorseless killer.

"I need to know who he was working for," Bond goes on despite it. "I need your hacking skills. And I need them to be absolutely infallible."

Q faces him fully, sleeves pulled over fists so that he looks impossibly small. "Who am I hacking?"

"MI6."

Q's lips part in surprise.

Bond smiles grimly. "And for that, M will blame you."

\--

"Guy Haines?" Q repeats the name as he sits at the desk. He has to jiggle his sleeves back as he sets fingers to the keyboard, and the bracelet of welts makes Bond's stomach lurch unpleasantly.

It's difficult to pull his attention from them. "Yes."

"It will take time," Q tells him, attention focused solely on the screen. The tension hasn't left his spine, but his voice is calm, professional. Too much like the quartermaster Bond knew before the poker game was won. Before Q told him his name, a name Bond already knew but was pleased to receive nonetheless. A name he only ever used to urge him to orgasm. A name he has no need of now.

"I need the information before we make port," Bond tells him. "Once we get off this boat, we'll no longer be safe. I need to know where we're going."

Q's fingers tap at the keyboard for a moment before he asks, stilted, "We?"

Bond traces the word in his mind, no delusion that it wasn't intentionally used. "Someone meant for either one of us, or both of us, to die in that explosion. Unless you're still of a mind to kill yourself, I don't think it's wise to travel to London alone."

Q's fingers still.

Regretting the words, Bond turns to glare out one of the windows. Still far from shore, the stars are bright.

"If I was dead, you could leave. I just wanted you safe—"

"You think that's what I wanted?" Bond demands quietly. "To watch you _kill yourself_?"

"I knew you would try to save me anyway. Even after I betrayed you, I knew you would try to save me."

"And instead of allowing me to, you chose to drown yourself," Bond says, the words as cold as the water that filled Q's lungs. He can feel the panic clawing at his chest, pinning him where he stands. "You took _everything_."

"I know, and I'm so sor—"

"No," Bond orders. "Don't. _Don't_ ," he repeats, swallows through the rush of water roaring in his ears. Forces the panic down. "Just… Find Haines' file. That's all I need from you. Just find him."

He doesn't turn away from the window and the only way he knows Q complies is by the clack of the keyboard.

\--

"James?"

He isn't sleeping, although the lilt of Q's voice tells him that's the assumption. He hasn't slept in three days.

The lights in the cabin are dimmed and according to his watch it's closing on 0300. Only five hours until they dock. He pushes up from the chair he's been sitting in for the past two hours.

Q is watching him from across the cabin, the light from the pilfered computers glinting off his glasses. He turns before Bond reaches the desk. There are maps spread across the screens, and a captioned face: Dominic Greene. "Greene Planet," Bond reads aloud as he takes in the information, leans in to read another name, catches himself and straightens. "Camille Montes. Who's she?"

Subdued and without the professional tenor, Q answers, "A girlfriend, or lover, it would seem." Q taps a series of keys and her file appears. _Family killed at a young age, member of Bolivia's secret service_. "She may be useful?"

"Perhaps," Bond murmurs, his mind already with the next face. "That's Mitchell."

"Craig Mitchell. He was M's bodyguard."

"Was?"

Q takes a breath but he still sounds like he doesn't have quite enough air when he says, "He tried to kill her yesterday."

Bond stares at the screen. M's tells are impossible to read by voice alone. "He was connected to Greene?"

"To Haines, and Haines to Greene."

"Damn it," Bond mutters. "If they know this much, M will be sending someone… If she hasn't already."

But Q shakes his head, leans over his keyboards. "It's not. I mean, I didn't…" He glances quickly at Bond and back to his screens. "Most of this information isn't from 6. Just the bodyguard. The rest I found in other systems. The CIA has an interest in Greene…" The hurried explanation peters out as he meets Bond's eyes. "I'm sorry, I know you only asked for MI6, but I thought if it might help…" He swallows, shoulders rounding in a way that makes Bond drift back to give him space.

"No," he says, the sting of guilt straining his voice. "It does help. Do you have a location for Greene?"

"He's flying to Austria this afternoon. Bregenz. For the festival, presumably."

It's a start.

"We'll need a flight as well, then," Bond tells him as he makes his way to the bar. "If you would?" He listens to Q clicking through arrangements while he pours himself two fingers of scotch and then swirls it around the tumbler instead of drinking it. Lazy and clear, so unlike the rush of water trapping Q behind those bars.

"Are you certain you want me along?"

The question should be ludicrous. It is ludicrous. Q's panic, as water rushed into his lungs, is bright in his memory, blotting out everything else. It shouldn't be a question.

"You weren't breathing," Bond says to the alcohol; tightens his grip on the glass to still the tremors. "I pulled you out of the water and you weren't breathing."

"I know—"

"Then don't ask me again if I'm certain." Bond tosses the scotch back and goes up the stairs before the panic can consume him.

\--

The alcohol does little to help. Not the measures he drank in the cabin, or the vodka he found in one of the storage compartments. Despite his best efforts, the memories remain sharp.

The sun is rising slowly above the water, casting the sky in pinks and oranges as Bond descends the stairs to tell Q they're coming into port.

He's asleep in the bed, curled into a ball. The stench of alcohol, and the half-empty bottle of whisky on the desk, halt Bond's footsteps. Q isn't fond of alcohol, preferring repulsive concoctions that he claims are beneficial to his health.

But perhaps that was just part of the lie.

The unbidden thought is disorienting. Where Q is concerned, he can't discern between disguise and reality.

 _Everyone has tells_ , Bond told him on the sandy beach Q loved so well. _Except you. I wonder if that's why I love you._

Which part is real? Which, the lie?

As Bond steps closer, watches the rhythmic rise and fall of Q's chest, it isn't anger that squeezes his chest. He was happy for the first time in his life. Free, in a way he's never been. If Q hadn't been threatened, if he'd simply been sent without coercion, would it have been the same?

Bond watches his eyelids flutter, the dark lashes against his pale skin and finds he has no answer.

Putting that aside—everything aside—Bond says his name, but Q doesn't stir. Tentatively, he touches his shoulder, shakes him gently. His eyes open slowly; blinks in muted confusion. A drowsy smile tugs at his lips. "James?"

His reach is halted mid-way, the smile falling away as reality sets in.

Bond finds his voice first. "It's time to leave."

Nodding mutely, Q licks dry lips. His limbs are clumsy as he sits up.

Bond steps back, allows him to find his footing, almost moving forward again when he gets caught in the sheets. But he doesn't fall and Bond relaxes, waits while he takes a moment in the bathroom.

When he emerges, he's still got creases in his cheek from the pillow. He's done nothing for the stubble; memories of kissing him while it scratched against Bond's skin rise unbidden to his mind.

Q chafing the stubble over Bond's balls, teasing him, coaxing him with his tongue to soothe the burn. Bond cradling Q's skull to draw him closer. The whispered pleas for more. Q's delighted laughter huffed over the sensitive skin before giving Bond one last lick and moving over him to sink down onto Bond's cock with a grin.

Bond couldn't look away.

Everything is different now, but Bond has never had much use for self-preservation. Q is watching him, pain pinching his face. The urge to touch him is palpable—to fold him in his embrace. To feel Q's pulse beneath his lips.

And when he reaches, Q doesn't pull away. His breath hitches as Bond's palm curls over his carotid, the careful cadence skittering before settling again.

Bond closes his eyes, thumb brushing down his throat to rest in the hollow as he listens to the measured march, proof of life against his skin. He can feel his own heartbeat slowing, matching beat for beat.

Not a mirage, not an illusion. Q, alive and whole.

"You could have told me," Bond says roughly. "You could have told me you were being blackmailed and I would have done–" _Anything_. Bond would have done anything Q needed, without limit. He still would. "You should have told me."

Q swallows beneath his fingers. "I couldn't."

Nothing is as he once thought.

"They said they would kill Yusef if I told anyone."

Bond lets his hand fall, the boyfriend's name like acid from Q's tongue. He turns away, but Q's voice rises, frantic as he goes on, "And then after—after they tortured you—I told them I would give them the money if they let you live, they warned me not to tell you, and I couldn't— How could I? James, _please_ —" He grabs Bond's arm to pull him around. "—if you just—"

Bond swallows the words with his tongue, the plea igniting the same reaction it did the first time. He takes Q's face between his hands but he stops himself from shoving him back; can hear his own harsh breaths as he tries to calm the panic clawing its way up his chest.

But then Q grips his wrists, voice ragged as he exhales, "It's okay, it's okay. Please—"

The rest doesn't matter, nothing does. Bond gives into the rising panic, silencing him as pushes Q back against the wall; holding him captive with hands at his hips. It's not enough this time, not nearly.

And when he turns Q around, pulls his trousers open roughly, there's only a strangled whimper to encourage him.

He fucks Q over the desk, the computers shoved aside to land haphazard across the floor. It's rough and fast, with only spit to ease the way, but Q encourages him with grunts, pushes back to meet every thrust. And when Bond reaches for his cock, he shudders, a wet sob escaping; cut off almost before it breaks.

Bond sets his forehead to Q's back, fingers pressing hard at his hip as he grits his teeth and focuses on the tight heat. His own balls as they slap against damp skin. Nothing else, no room for anything else. Only pleasure building steadily, wiping out the memories and the fear. And when he comes he bites down hard on Q's shoulder, but he can't silence the anguished sound completely.

Q cries out, his dick pulsing as warm cum coats Bond's fingers.

Bond's breath is harsh against Q's back, and the high is fading just as rapidly as it did above deck. Awareness sinks in its place, of how tightly he's holding Q's hip, the indent of his teeth in Q's shoulder. More bruises that Bond didn't set out to make. Not that Bond has ever objected to rough sex, but it's never been like that with Q.

It feels like a vice is squeezing his chest as he pulls out.

Q's face is still pressed to the dark wood. With Bond's weight no longer holding him down, he takes a long breath and another before he fumbles for his pants, pulls them up shakily with his trousers.

Bond turns away as he puts his own clothing back to rights. He doesn't expect Q to come up behind him a moment later, or the arms that wrap around his chest. But he doesn't pull away. He can't. They've done this so many times, it's too easy to forget they're not on the boat they bought together, a quiet moment amidst their aimless wanderings.

Q's palm settles over Bond's heart and without really thinking about it, Bond puts a hand over his. He can feels Q's heartbeat against his back.

Bond’s breath shakes as he exhales. “You could have told me.”

Q doesn’t say anything, just sets his forehead to Bond’s neck. They stay that way until Bond lets his hand fall. He moves toward the stairs, leaving Q to follow.

\--

There is no one lying in wait for them, but Bond stays alert. Especially after he gets rid of his gun in order to pass through security. The guards have far less training than he does, however, and it's a relatively simple matter to catch one alone in a toilet and divest him of his.

Q doesn't say a word, though his eyes are wide behind his glasses as the officer sinks to the tiled floor. Bond closes the door behind them and breaks off the handle, moving away as he tosses it into a nearby potted plant.

"Don't look back," Bond instructs, and perhaps he should be surprised that Q listens without question. But Q hasn't said a word since his plea before Bond fucked him. Bond watches him carefully, but still has no idea what tells he should be looking for.

The silence continues once they're in the air, on the chartered flight Q arranged without a hitch. He even managed a passport and credit cared for himself in the short time they had before their flight. Truly, the man would have been a gifted quartermaster.

But that isn't what holding Bond's attention.

It's the refusal of food or drink when the flight attendant asks, the tapping thumbs against the armrests throughout the flight.

Bond spends the duration of the flight trying to decipher if these are tells—trying to remember if they've happened before.

But it was only the watch he wore, spinning it round and round his wrist, that ever alerted him something was wrong.

It isn't until they're in their hotel—one room because it's safer that way, less obtrusive—that Bond knows Q is hiding something.

"We need to find you something to wear," Bond says when he's checked that the suite is secure. An evening at the opera requires something more than the oversized jumper Q is still wearing. Bond stole a suit from the owner of the boat.

"I think I should stay here," Q says, as though the idea has just occurred to him.

"You'll be safer with me."

"No one knows we're here," Q points out. "I'll be fine by myself." He smiles in a way that looks too cheerful and Bond is immediately alert. He frowns, but keeps it at concern instead of mistrust.

Chooses his words mindfully. "I may be gone for several hours."

"I'll be fine."

Bond pretends to consider it, glancing around the room as though to measure its security. "Don't leave the room," he says, finally, facing Q again. Bond can't see any relief in his eyes, just a faint nod.

"I won't."

Bond turns away, not wanting to give away the sudden surge of anger he feels.

Of course he shouldn't have trusted him, not after he lied the first time. Pretended to love him in the hopes of getting his boyfriend back. Bond should have learned his lesson.

He's learnt it now, and whatever Q is planning, Bond will make sure he fails.

\--

It only takes ten minutes of waiting in the lobby before Q appears. Nothing about his actions look suspicious though. He obviously doesn't suspect Bond is watching.

And why should he? Bond has been a fool twice now.

He can feel his jaw tensing, but he forces it to relax. Emotions have no place here. Attachments have never been a part of the game.

Q stops briefly at the concierge's desk, passes an envelope over with only a few words exchanged and then continues through the lobby. Bond moves cautiously, stays far enough behind that Q won't be alerted, hails a cab only a moment behind him and orders the driver to follow.

"Discreetly," he adds, and the cabbie tips his cap and doesn't ask questions.

Bond isn't surprised when he realises Q is returning to the airport. Of course Dominic Greene isn't here in Bregenz.

Once they reach the airport, Bond asks the driver to stop several cars behind Q's, and then he waits until Q is nearing the door before paying the cabbie and following him inside.

Q doesn't delay, makes his way quickly through the queue to check-in and then on through security. Bond keeps to the shadows until Q reaches the gate.

He turns his head just enough to read the flight information. And then he slides back into his shadowed corner, mind working over the best way to get himself to Belarus.

\--

It's dark as Bond follows Q through the streets of Minsk. To a small house, set back from the road. He watches Q get out of the cab. Once the cabbie drives away, Q moves with purpose toward the house. Bond pays his own cabbie and follows on foot.

But Q apparently doesn't have a key to the house.

He turns the handle at the back door several times, shoves a shoulder against the wood when that doesn't work. With a muttered word that Bond can't make out across the grass, Q gives up and bends to retrieve a large rock, pauses for a moment and then breaks the corner pane of glass.

Bond presses himself back when Q turns around, eyes scanning the darkness. Once he's satisfied that he's alone, he reaches through and unlocks the door. He doesn't turn on any of the lights once he's inside.

Bond waits long enough to be sure Q intends to stay inside before he follows.

He expects Q to be rifling through drawers, or upending cupboards. Searching for something like a thief in the night. But instead he finds him sitting in the darkened living room, staring at the front door.

Bond stays where he is, in the kitchen, watchfully silent and waits with him. He presses himself to the wall when he hears the key turn in the lock seventeen minutes later—Q is well timed, or so it seems.

There are two voices, both laughing, and Bond can see Q tense, his spine straightening. But whatever is happening here, it's exactly what he expects. It's not a jerk of fear, but a purposeful deliberation as he pulls a gun from his coat pocket. Bond has to stop himself from moving forward, but he does slide his own gun from its holster. The man who sat in the shower, fully dressed, because he watched Bond kill two people, is nowhere to be found. And even with the evidence in front of him, Bond finds it impossible to ignore the surge of betrayal that bites at his chest.

The feeling isn't allowed to linger. Light floods the room, switched on by whoever is opening the door. Bond shifts back to keep himself from being seen.

Bond turns his head to see two men, both of whom are still laughing at whatever they're saying between them. But then one of the men looks up—the one with dark hair—and his eyes widen.

His voice is high, filled with panic when he says Q's name.

"Yusef." There's a quiver in Q's voice. He lifts the hand that holds the gun. It's shaking.

Bond feels his adrenaline spiking, but he stays where he is. Yusef, the boyfriend. The boyfriend who clearly hasn't drowned.

The man at Yusef's side looks at Q with confusion and Q says quietly, "Sit down." Yusef opens his mouth, but Q stands, voice sharp now as he barks, "Sit down!"

Yusef skitters back. "Just… do as he says," he murmurs to the other.

Q switches his attention to Yusef's companion as they obey. "You work in Canadian Intelligence?" he asks. "It's all right… I know you do. And because you're with him—" Q's eyes shift briefly back to Yusef. "—I'd guess you have access to sensitive material." He swallows, his hand wracked with intermittent tremors. "Just like I did. Let me tell you how it will go. His life will be threatened and because you think you love him, you'll do as the blackmailers ask." A pause and then Q says, voice thick, "That's a beautiful watch." Identical to Q's, in every way. "He gave it to you, didn't he?"

Yusef's companion covers the watch with his fingers, swallowing as he stares at Q.

Bond watches the scene, the anger and betrayal completely drained. His chest aches with the temptation to go out there to stand beside Q.

"I had one just like it," Q says. The other man's eyes are beginning to shine with the beginning of tears. "Michael. That's your name?"

"Y-yes."

"Michael, you should leave. Contact your people. There was in a spy in our ranks and there is likely one in yours as well. Yusef and I have some unfinished business."

Michael, being careful not to touch Yusef, gets up from the sofa and leaves without a word.

Q's hand is still unsteady as he trains the gun at Yusef's face.

Finally, Yusef whispers, "Please." Makes no attempt to deny anything. No pretense at having no choice, or loving Q despite the mask. Just the plea.

Bond steps out from the shadows, but neither of them notice.

"I loved you," Q scrapes over the words. "I thought I did…" His fingers flex where he holds the gun, a fruitless attempt to steady his aim. "The entire time—you were just pretending…" He swallows and he speaks again, it's with tears clogging his throat, "I lied to someone too. To save you and it wasn't worth it."

Yusuf tries to interrupt again, shifting as though to raise his hands.

" _No_. I'm not going to let you do this to anyone else." Q raises his arm a little higher, steadying his wrist with the other hand and that's when Bond interrupts.

"Q," he says; softly, but Q still startles. 

His eyes dart quickly to Bond. "James?" his voice warbles with surprise.

In front of him, Yusef shifts and Q's attention snaps back to him. "Don't," he says, a quiver in the order. "Don't move." The next words are obviously meant for Bond. "I can't let him go free."

"We won't," Bond assures him, calm and easy despite the rage he feels for the man who betrayed Q. "You don't want to do this."

"I…"

"If you kill him," Bond says, keeping his voice as even as he can, "there's no going back."

Q swallows, eyes flicking to Bond again. "James, I…"

"I know," Bond assures him. "Let me help." Q is blinking rapidly, and when Bond takes a cautious step toward him, he doesn't move. He allows him to take the gun away.

He's clearly in shock, not moving, just staring blankly at Yusef.

"That's better," Bond murmurs as he puts Q's gun into his pocket and takes his wrist, just in case he loses his legs. "You're all right."

Yusef takes this as his cue to attempt an escape, so Bond trains the gun right between his eyes and says steadily, "If you move again, I'll kill you."

Yusef sinks back into the cushions. "What—what are you…"

"I've contacted my superiors," Bond tells him. "They're very interested to meet you."

Panic widens Yusef's eyes. He scrambles up from the couch, stumbling toward the door. But before he reaches it, Bond shoots him in the shoulder. It spins him off his feet and as luck would have it, he hits his head on the way down.

He won't die—most likely. But neither will he move in the few minutes it will take for reinforcements to arrive.

Bond turns to Q. He hasn't moved. His eyes are empty as he stares at Yusef's still form.

"He isn't dead," Bond says quickly, but Q doesn't say anything. Doesn't acknowledge that he's heard. The agents arrive then, with competent stealth through the back door. Three guns aimed at Q, as they would have been instructed to do.

That snaps Q out of his stupor. His face pales, but before he can move or say anyting, Bond steps in front of him. "Over there," he says, gesturing. To their credit, the three agents don't ask questions. They slip past on silent feet. "He needs medical."

The one in charge nods crisply and starts speaking into the radio on his shoulder.

Q is still staring, his face unnaturally white. "I didn't know why you were coming here," Bond explains. Q swallows, nods clumsily. "They'll want to question you." He doesn't mean the men currently checking Yusef for signs of life. Bond has questions too but being asked to go through them twice is probably not what Q needs right now. "Come on," Bond says, gently and leads the way outside, where snow is just starting to fall.

He isn't at all surprised to see M.

"Yusef Kabira's inside," Bond says by way of greeting.

"Is he dead?" No surprise. No reaction.

He narrows his eyes a little, but she lets nothing slip. "You knew it was his address."

"Not until a few moments ago," she admits before switching her attention to Q. "I'm more interested in how you knew. This wasn't his house until three weeks ago. Certainly not while you knew him."

Q glances at Bond.

"You discovered it while you were breaking into MI6's files," he guesses.

They both ignore M's exasperated, "For god's sake!"

Q looks at him, pulls his coat tightly around himself. "Not theirs," he answers. "It was in the CIA's files."

"I asked him to," Bond tells M without pulling his gaze from Q. Q grimaces, and it bothers Bond more than it should that he has no idea what that means.

"He didn't ask me to spy on the CIA," Q clarifies. His teeth are chattering. "They've been watching Greene for a long time. Yusef… his name was there too." He reaches into his coat pocket, holds out the data stick with uncertain fingers; the one Bond refused two days ago. "I don't know how he's connected to Greene. I realise you can't trust me," he says to M. "But … your people can look at the data…. I am sorry," he offers quietly as she takes the stick. "Whatever…" He has to swallow to get the rest out, and when Bond attempts a comforting hand at his back, Q stiffens. "… whatever you need to do, I understand."

M studies him for a long time. "We thought we knew everything about Yusef Kabira."

"M—"

"You were right about Mathis," M cuts in smoothly, turning her attention to Bond. "But as you said, that doesn't mean Q is innocent."

"I'm not innocent," Q tells her. "I transferred the money to the account they gave me."

"And then you put it back where it belonged," M says, without a touch of sympathy "And you saved James' life when Le Chiffre poisoned him."

Q looks at Bond, searching his face. But Bond hasn't forgotten.

"What did they ask you to do?" M asks.

It takes a moment for Q to drag his eyes away. "If James won, I was to transfer the money to the account given."

"You weren't asked to see to it that he won? At any cost."

"No." Q pauses again to swallow through the gravel. "They didn't care who won, as long as they got their money. If Le Chiffre won, they said they'd take it. But I thought… I thought if I refused to give James the extra five million… I thought they would leave him alone… I just wanted…"

Bond steps closer to him without realizing it and Q's eyes close. He takes a deep breath. "I wanted him to lose," he admits. He opens his eyes, spine tautening a little as he meets M's gaze once more but she's as unreadable as ever.

"But not enough to let Le Chiffre's poison take him out of the game."

"No."

M continues her study for a moment longer. She gives the data stick to Tanner, standing beside her. "We'll verify your story. In the meantime, whether or not it's Greene, it seems someone intends to kill you."

"They did tell me they would. That night…" But they all know which night he means.

"Then it seems our only choice is to keep you hidden until we find them," M says calmly. "It will give us time to ensure you're telling the truth." There's a wry twist to her lips. "Tanner, I'll be inside. 007."

She turns toward the house, and Bond follows after a quick order to Tanner, "Stay with him."

M says, without breaking her stride, "We intend to follow Greene to the end of the trail."

"I assumed you would."

"By all accounts, he is in Bregenz. You can be there in five hours."

"No, I can't," Bond tells her, and she stops walking. Faces him with her eyes narrowed.

"You don't want the job?"

Bond looks back at Q, staring blankly into the distance. At the angles of his face, sharper than they should be; and the wind lifting his curls as the snow falls around him. He looks frail, lost in the heavy coat he's wearing. Bond turns back to M. "Not this time," he answers and somehow, she doesn't look surprised.

"You trust him," she says, no question attached. Bond doesn't disillusion her. It isn't what she means. He knows Q was blackmailed. He wasn't a double agent, that's not at issue.

"He's telling the truth," is all he says.

"But you didn't tell me he was alive," she counters; perhaps a question had been there after all.

"I didn't have all the information then."

The arch of her eyebrows lingers. "Do you intend to reinstate your retirement?"

"I don't know."

M glances at Q. "While you decide," she says, "you're assigned as his personal guard."

Bond knows better than to thank her. "Yes, ma'am."

M nods. As she turns away, she says, "His replacement is rubbish." Bond watches her until she's inside the house, and after a moment, he smiles.

It falls away when he turns back to Q. He's still staring at nothing; shivering inside his coat.

Bond has no way of knowing which parts were real, if any. Perhaps it should surprise him that he wants to. More than he wants to go back into the field, he wants to know. That desire to be with Q isn't a new feeling. The anxiety prickling at him is, but he finds the fear propelling him forward, through the slippery snow, back to Q.

\--

The night is quiet, the house isolated enough to burn stars across the sky. There's a village below, but that too is silent, sleeping along with everyone else on the island where Bond and Q have been sequestered.

There are guards camped out below, but Bond finds no solace in their presence.

Q hasn't moved since they arrived. He still sits in the chair near the edge of the balcony, knees bent and arms wrapped around his legs as he stares out over the ocean. And Bond has spent most of that watching him from the door—alternating between Q's hunched form and scanning for intruders.

He hasn't removed his gun from its holster. Tossing his jacket over one of the chairs inside was his only compromise to the heat. Q is still wearing his jumper.

Food is probably in order, although Bond feels no tug of hunger—and hasn't since he left Q with Haines' dead body.

The reminder wakes the residual panic from its slumber, but it doesn't choke him this time. It's dull and quiet, much like the anger Bond still feels. Something like hurt, if he is honest with himself.

Q is hurting as well, and there's no satisfaction in knowing that. In seeing the light gone from his eyes. When Bond met him, he wore a mask. Perhaps it was all a mask, the happiness as well. But all of that is gone now, leaving nothing but grief in its wake.

Bond has no way of knowing if it's here for Yusef or for him.

Either way, Bond wants to take it away.

He takes another scan of the property, noting the guards in their positions, and the lack of boats or planes nearby and then walks across the stones to stand beside Q's chair. Q doesn't acknowledge him, not immediately.

But the panicked edge smoothes anyway. Bond finds breathing infinitely easier here.

Eventually, not taking his eyes from the water, Q says, "I'm sorry they sent you here with me."

"M wanted me to find Greene."

Q looks at him, confusion drawing his eyebrows together behind his glasses. "Why didn't you?"

Bond squints against the sun; wishes he thought to look for sunglasses before coming out. "I didn't want to."

Q stares at him for a long moment before turning his face away again. Gruffly, he says, "I don't understand you."

"You've said so before."

Q blinks at the sea, doesn't take the bait. "You should have gone after Greene."

"Why?"

"Why?" Q echoes, turning to stare at him. "Didn't you hear what I said to Yusef? I lied to you—"

"I hardly need a reminder."

"Then why are you here?" Q asks, plaintive.

"I've already told you I want you safe."

His face pinched now, Q nods and looks away. "It won't take them long to sort it out. They have everything they need to know." His jaw clenches and as though he can't keep it in he says explosively, "I betray you and you save my life—"

"I don't need a reminder of that either."

Q closes his eyes, face pinched as he drops his eyes. "I know," he agrees. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it. I suppose you're tired of hearing that."

"I've never been particularly fond of apologies."

Q nods and Bond watches as he struggles to find words. But anything else he means to say is never voiced. He stands, and although Bond could stop him with a word, he has no doubt, he doesn't. Q takes three steps before he turns back just long enough to say, "Thank you," before he goes into the house.

\--

Bond wakes in a cold sweat, and gasping.

It takes a moment to remember where he is, but that isn't unprecedented. His heart is racing, even though he can see Q is still asleep in the bad adjacent.

"James?"

He jerks at the query. Squints through the darkness and finds Q sitting up. Bond presses his fingers into his eyes, squeezing the exhaustion away as he stands.

"Is everything…"

"Nothing's wrong," Bond assures him, quiet as he moves to the window. It was a nightmare that woke him, visions of Q drowning while he watched. But he checks to make sure the guards are where they are supposed to be. They are, but it doesn't ease much of the tension from his spine.

Q doesn't ask why he chose a chair to sleep in, when there is another perfectly serviceable bed in the other room. He pushes himself to sit, watching from the side of the bed that Bond has come to know as his. "Is there anything I can do?" he finally asks, voice foggy with sleep. "The doctor who looked us over gave me pills—"

"She gave the same ones to me." Bond turns to look out the window again. "I threw them down the toilet."

"But if you can't sleep—"

"I can sleep." Sleeping is not the issue. It's the rushing water and Q's lifeless face that he wants to avoid. His frantic attempt to force him to breathe again. _Breathe, Q, breathe._

It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. Q's here, perfectly safe. But the water keeps rising, tearing the air from Bond's lungs. Gasping, he stumbles as he turns away from the dark window.

Cautious fingers catch his wrist. "James?"

Bond blinks at Q, chest rising and falling chaotically and it doesn't matter that he shouldn't. He pushes Q back onto the bed and crawls over him to capture his face. Kisses him noisily, blocking out the rushing water, the weight of Q's body as he dragged him onto the cement, the breaths, the compressions, the pleas.

Just their bodies pressed together, Q fumbling at the straps of his holster, the thunk of the gun as it hits the floor. Q's skin, the ecstatic tempo of his heart, the scratch of his stubble against Bond's lips.

Trousers, shoved down and Q's dick slotted against his own. The course thatch of hair, perfect against his own thickening erection. Q's nails making divets against Bond's back.

It's messy and uncoordinated, no finesse as Bond finds a haphazard rhythm that works. Keeps Q's hips still as he rubs their sweat-slicked cocks together. Their mouths are still fused, the moans muffled between them. It's perfect, just what Bond needs to make everything else fade away.

The pleasure is building too fast, takes his breath and he has to pull his mouth from Q's as his balls tighten. Q is blinking at him, dazed but Bond turns away, sets his forehead to the pillow, his hips frantic; body lost to the rush of the unexpected orgasm.

He can feel the way Q's body tightens beneath his; pushes his cock against Q's to feel it pulsing a moment later, the warmth of his cum as it spills between their bodies.

Reveling in the aftershocks, he closes his eyes and presses his lips to Q's neck without thinking. But once he does it, he lingers, lets his fingers slide in a caress along his flanks. Q's hands are doing the same at his back, the tentative touch reminding Bond that they're not in one of the hotels they stayed in on their travels.

They're in one of 6's safe houses, because Q betrayed him.

Bond slides off, and is met with Q's eyes, wet in the dim light. Bond stares at him, startled by the tears. But Q quickly rolls away, awkward angles as he sits at the edge of the bed.

It's the bruises that halt Bond where he is. Even in the dim light, they're stark; angry welts on pale skin.

He slides across the mattress, but when his fingers touch down on Q's hip, his back stiffens. He doesn't pull away, but his spine stays rigid, fingers curling into the sheets. There's another bruise on his other hip, and the ones he left on Q's wrist as well.

The back of his neck bears his mark as well.

Bond sits up and trails his fingers beneath. And when he does, Q's muscles tense as though to stand.

Bond murmurs his name. It stills the agitated movement. He stays where he is as Bond touches the bruise with his lips. A caress too gentle to hurt. He takes great care with each mark he's made on Q's body, apologies he can't find the words to voice, and by the time he returns his lips to Q's neck, Q is trembling.

Bond is startled when he whispers, "I wanted to tell you."

Bond takes a moment to process that and asks the obvious, "Then, why didn't you?"

"I thought…" He inhales, his back moving with it. "I thought they would let me live. I hoped they would, and then there wouldn't be any reason for you to know. I know that only makes it worse…"

The immediate anger Bond feels at the admission isn't helpful. But it's impossible not to demand, "Then why tell me?"

"I… wanted to be honest—"

"Honest about your intention to lie to me?" Bond asks, incredulous as he sits up. "For what? The rest of our lives?"

Q twists to look at him. "There wasn't any reason for you to know. Not if I—"

"And when M realised the money was missing? Because that's what happened. She asked when you intended to deposit it. That's how I knew you were lying to me. How were you going to explain that?"

"I don't know."

"Which is why you should have told me," Bond says, agitated enough that he sits up. "I could have helped."

"I didn't want your help."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I was trying to protect you!"

"I'm a bloody double oh," Bond snaps. "I don't need your protection."

A half smile lifts Q's dark expression, but that only irritates Bond further. He demands, "Why are you smiling?"

"It's your ego again…" He grimaces as soon as he says it.

"My ego has nothing to do with it."

"I know, I just… I don't know why I said that."

"Because you used to enjoy teasing me." Bond looks away from the surprise in Q's eyes. He doesn't think he quite meant to say that aloud. "You should go to sleep."

"Only if you will."

Bond turns to stare at him, halfway back to irritation. For the first time in days now, Q doesn't look in the least repentant.

"This was the first time you've slept... in how long?" he asks.

"I don't know," Bond answers flippantly. "How many days has it been since you tried to drown yourself?"

He almost regrets it but instead of crumpling, Q narrows his eyes. "Is that what you're angriest about? Or is it because you think I was pretending to love you?"

Anger burns along Bond's spine. He gets two feet on the floor and a half a step away before Q grabs his arm. Unwilling to turn it into a tug of war, Bond stops but he keeps his face turned away.

"Damn it, James, look at me."

Bond's jaw flexes but he can't.

"You'll fuck me. Leave bruises all over my body because you're angry but you won't look at me."

"That's not…" The rough words fade as Q takes his face between his hands. Bond blinks at him.

"You can be angry with me for as long as you need to be, or you can hate me because I didn't know how to tell you, but I wasn't pretending to love you."

Bond expects the words to be a balm, but it isn't so easy.

"I know you can't trust that," Q says, and somewhere in Bond's chest, he resents the permission. But it hurts Q to say it, that much is plain. It's a little startling to realise he can tell just by the way his eyes shift away for a second. He has tells. And Bond still loves him.

And it would probably be healthier to talk about that, or at the very least for Bond to say something to the lengthy speech Q has given him. Later, perhaps.

Careful of the bruises, Bond backs him toward the bed. Q doesn't protest, but Bond doesn't stop to consider that. To make comparisons to the playful Q he enjoyed so many times in bed. He nudges him onto the mattress. His eyes are searching now, but Bond kisses him before he can say anything. Gently this time, unhurried and quiet while Q's fingers explore his back, over his arse.

There's no panic to drive him this time, no desperation to tether Q to him. Just the simple desire to touch and be touched. To feel the way Q arches beneath him when he kisses his earlobe.

And Q remembers just as well, knows he likes kisses pressed to his neck; and the light scratch of fingernails against his scalp when he moves slowly downward to take Q's dick in his mouth.

He sucks him lazily, without intent because Q has always liked that. The wet heat as a counterpoint to Bond's fingers in Q's arse; working him open. The moans of approval are music and when Bond glances up, Q's eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the pillow.

That hasn't changed.

Eventually, Bond fucks him, when Q is desperate, whispered pleas like always. And that's quiet as well, foreheads pressed together the entire time; no anger to mark him. And after they both come, Bond is in no hurry to separate. Waits until his cock is soft so he can slip out.

Their bodies are damp with cooling sweat and drying cum, but Bond only moves enough so that Q won't be crushed beneath his weight. Tension is slowly returning to his muscles.

Bond can feel the echoing tension in his own.

Silence hasn't helped in any way, but Bond still doesn't have the words. He doesn't want to move though, which seems to be enough for now. Q doesn't move either. The tension drains slowly and eventually Q's breathing begins to slow. Bond waits him out and only when Q is asleep, does he allow himself to drift.

\--

He finds their bodies tangled together when he wakes again. It's barely dawn and Q is still asleep. Bond watches him, the flutter of his eyelashes and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The bruises on his neck look worse in the wakening light.

The tug of guilt isn't easily ignored, not even when Bond extracts himself carefully and retrieves his trousers and gun from the floor. A shower, as unpleasant as his skin feels, will have to wait.

The guards are exactly as they should be, all of them answering his queries with crisp efficiency. Nothing unusual during the night, all as it should be. As far as they know—officially—Bond is here as Q's personal guard, although it's not usually the job of a double oh.

None of them question it, of course, which makes Bond's life considerably easier.

Even so, he showers and dresses quickly. Q is still sleeping when he emerges so he takes himself to the kitchen to make coffee, and then to the balcony to watch the waves.

The sea is calm, a perfect day for sailing. Bond wonders where they would be right now; if things hadn't gone tits up in Venice. Would they have sailed down the coast, back up again to France? Or would they have chosen to sail toward Greece?

He finds he needs to know.

The sound of the door opening pulls him from his thoughts, tenses his muscles. He relaxes again when he sees Q, dressed and damp from a shower. He hesitates for a moment before crossing the stones.

"Good morning."

The formal greeting—and the space he left between them—is another reminder of what's been lost. But then Q touches his wrist, just a gentle press, and Bond finds his throat closing.

He looks at him, finds Q's cautious gaze. Bond turns his hand over and some of the worry drains away as Q slides their fingers together.

"Greece or France?" Bond asks before he can say anything.

Q frowns. "Sorry?"

"If we hadn't been interrupted in Venice," Bond explains, watches Q's face carefully. "Where would our aimless wanderings have taken us?"

Q's eyes slide away briefly before he answers. "I don't know."

"Which would you choose now?"

A pause for Q to search his eyes, but Bond doesn't mind the scrutiny. "Greece, I suppose? I've never been."

Relief is a strange emotion, and although it has nothing to do with that particular choice, Bond revels in it. And now that he's watching Q's face, it's difficult to stop cataloguing.

The way he squints before asking if it's safe to go down to the beach.

"As safe as the house," Bond tells him.

"Shall we?" Q asks, not looking at him until the question is complete.

"You're wearing too many clothes," is Bond's answer and he rather likes the alacrity with which Q strips off his shirt. One of the pyschiatrists at MI6 would probably tell them sex is a poor substitute for communication, but Bond has always been of the opinion that psychiatrists are full of shit so he pulls off his own shirt and follows Q down to the beach.

He doesn't particularly care that there are guards watching from above, but Q has never been fond of public nudity. "The guards can see us," he says as they step onto the hot sand.

Q's gaze goes quickly to the house above. "Oh." He squints against the sun as he turns back to Bond, sets his glasses in the sand and then walks into the water, still wearing his trousers. Bond's amusement quickly turns to panic as soon as he disappears beneath the surface.

He's already moving, but Q reappears a second later, rivulets sliding down his face. Bond stares at him, watching him push his dripping hair from his eyes. Only his head and shoulders are visible, the top of his arms flexing as he struggles to unfasten his trousers.

As it did yesterday, the fear propels Bond forward. The water is cold as it laps over his toes, sending his mind back to Venice. He can't move forward.

Q finally finishes struggling with his trousers. The sopping fabric lands half in the surf near Bond's feet. And then Q frowns, angles his head. "Are you okay?" he calls, but Bond doesn't answer. He's too busy making sure the water stays away from Q's face.

Q squints as he looks past Bond toward the house. Another darting look at Bond and then he's swimming toward the beach. Only a few strokes before he can touch the sand to walk the rest of the way.

He's still wearing his pants—boxer briefs. Black, because that's what's been supplied by whoever is in charge of clothing at 6, instead of the vibrant colours he used to wear. They cling to his body, water dripping down his legs as he walks toward Bond and embraces him.

Bond lets his breath out as soon as Q is in his arms. Q holds him tightly, mutters nonsense into his neck. It's ridiculous that it soothes him. Better than the rough fucks did.

His fingers graze the marks he left on Q's hips. Exhales slowly. And then Q is taking his face between his hands and kissing him. Bond lets him in, lets him walk them backward to the cliff face and into the shade. Away from the watchful eyes of MI6's agents.

They fuck against the cliff, Q's legs wrapped around Bond's waist; arms around his neck. Still a favourite apparently. Q comes at Bond's urging, only seconds before Bond.

They're still kissing, Bond's legs shaking, as he moves away from the cliff and back toward the water, Q still in his arms and shielded from the view of the guards above. But Q doesn't seem to notice, not until the water is to their waists. He pulls back just enough for their eyes to meet.

"James…"

Bond kisses him silent as they wade into the ocean. The panic is banked. Q is safe in his arms, no bars to separate them, no enemies to snatch him away. The waves are gentle, lapping at their bodies.

Bond doesn't even feel the cold.

\--

"We should probably talk about it," Q says when they're on the beach again, Bond on his back and Q half on top of him. He's struggled back into his briefs, which Bond watched with amusement.

And although it isn't what he means, Bond asks, "How did you get the gun through security?"

Q looks up at him, frowning in confusion. The expression clears and he shakes his head. "It was in Yusef's house. In the table beside the bed."

Bond can feel his muscles clenching. "M said he only lived there for three weeks."

"No," Q says quickly, his palm moving to settle over Bond's heart. "He always kept a gun in the table beside the bed. When I knew him… He told me it was in case someone broke in, which is bollocks, I know that now…" He stops, but Bond is glaring at the sky in the distance and he has no idea what expression he's wearing.

"This is why we need to talk about this," Q eventually says, quiet and obviously not keen. "You don't trust me."

Bond doesn't even bother to respond. If he did, it wouldn't be kind.

"James—"

"Possibly, I would be more inclined to trust you if you hadn't gone off to Minsk to shoot your boyfriend."

"I didn't go there to shoot him. I was afraid of what he might do when he saw me—"

"You went there knowing how dangerous he was—"

"I know it was stupid. But I just wanted to…. I don't even know. But after I found out he lied to me—"

"A feeling I understand well." Bitter and unkind, exactly as he suspected it would be. Q's breaths are coming too fast but he doesn't move. Bond closes his eyes, regret heavy in his chest. He's always been in control of his emotions. He was supposed to be immune to this.

"I know it's unforgivable," Q says unevenly. "I know that."

Not trusting himself, or his voice, Bond doesn't say anything. And when Q shifts as though to get up, Bond tightens his arms. It's not fair, he knows it isn't but Q stops moving anyway.

They stay on the beach for a long time, until Bond realises that neither of them ate breakfast—or dinner yesterday evening.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, into Q's hair because he's tucked himself in quite close although Bond doesn't consciously remember him doing so.

But Q doesn't answer and it takes a further moment of investigation to realise he's asleep. So Bond tightens his arm a little and closes his eyes, lets his muscles relax into the cushioning sand.

\--

There's a message from M waiting on his phone when they finally return to the balcony. Bond sweeps his thumb across the screen to read it: Greene has been neutralised.

It's only been three days.

"What's the matter?" Q asks.

"A message from M," Bond answers as he dials the office. He's put through immediately. "It's only been three days," he says when she greets him.

"Q's information was thorough. He makes our current quartermaster look incompetent."

Bond smiles a little.

"You can tell him he's been pardoned," M goes on.

"He'll be happy to hear it."

"I imagine you both are."

Bond doesn't answer because he doesn't need to.

"You're owed thirty-two days of holiday," she reminds him of their earlier discussion.

"Yes, I know."

"Do you plan to take them?"

Bond looks at Q, standing near the edge of the balcony and trying not to appear anxious. Standing in the sun without a shirt, his hair a mess. The bruises are beginning to fade from his skin.

"Yes," Bond answers.

It's difficult to tell if M is disappointed when she says, "We'll speak again in a month." A pause. "Take care of yourself, 007."

She cuts the call before he has a chance to reply. Sighing, he puts the phone down on the table. Q is watching the waves when Bond joins him at the edge of the balcony.

"Did M have news about Greene?" He's the one avoiding eye contact this time, but Bond doesn't call him on it.

"Good news, yes" Bond says. "And you've been pardoned. She asked me to send along her gratitude. Your hacking skills were apparently very helpful."

Still watching the water, Q nods. "When are you expected back?"

"I told her I needed more time."

Q looks at him, surprised. "Did you?"

Q has tells, just like everyone else. And Bond still loves him.

"You shift your eyes down when you're nervous," he says, and Q squints at him in confusion. "It's one of your tells." The squinting as well.

"Oh."

"And you flex your wrists when you're trying not to say something you think won't be well received."

Q looks down at his hands, forces them to relax.

"I do love you," Bond tells him and for the first time since Venice, Q smiles. Genuinely smiles, even though there are tears in his eyes.

"Do you?" he asks, as surprised as the first time Bond told him.

"Yes," Bond says, soft and serious. "Very much."

"And is that enough?" Q asks, a tremor in the echoed question. Bond cups his cheek, brings their mouths together. It's enough.

\--

Trust, however, is difficult to reestablish once it's been broken. And even though Bond knows Q no longer has anything to hide, he finds his senses heightened as they prepare to leave the safehouse.

The guards are despatched within two hours, and Bond finds it more disquieting than he should. The house feels too large, and although M has offered to allow them to stay for the duration, he has no desire to.

The feeling takes them to the village, in search of food, even though Bond is perfectly capable of preparing the meal himself. But Q seems just as eager to stretch his legs.

"They're sending a plane in the morning," he says as they walk through the busy market. Bond slides an arm around Q's waist to steer them away from an insistent fishmonger. "We only need to choose a destination."

"M offered me my job back."

Bond stops walking, halting them in front of a stall stacked with woven carpets. Q stops as well but there is no relief in his expression.

"She seems to think it would encourage you to return as well."

"What did you tell her?" Bond asks, failing spectacularly to keep his voice level.

"She told me I'm to consider your holiday mine as well."

Bond can feel his jaw flexing. Emotional detachment. He used to wear it so well. "You're going back?"

Q frowns. "Aren't you?"

"I resigned."

"But that was before—"

Bond turns away, but Q is beside him again in two steps. "Why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry," Bond tells him, as dishonest as they come.

"Then why are you running away?"

And that halts him again. Grimacing, he turns, and as soon as he does, Q takes his hand, drags him into a dim alley and kisses him. So thoroughly, he's breathless by the time Q pulls back. Bond blinks at him, sluggish and stupid.

"Now that we've got that out of the way," Q says with brisk irritation, "you have to talk to me. Or do you need an orgasm before we're allowed?"

Despite himself, Bond smiles. "If you wouldn't mind."

"James."

Holding on to his amusement, Bond says, "I'm hardly going to refuse—"

"Oh, for god's sake." Q surges forward, meets his mouth with the kind of force Bond isn't accustomed to; not with Q. He finds he likes it, no matter that there is a market full of people just out of view.

Q doesn't seem to care either. He kisses him hungrily until Bond is hard, and then he drops to his knees, hands deftly opening belt and trousers.

"Q…"

The surprised protest is whisked away as Q starts sucking his dick. He groans, bites his lip when he remembers they aren't entirely alone and winds his fingers through Q's hair. Q's encouraging hum vibrates his dick. It doesn't take long, not with that expert tongue, for Bond to come, his hips jerking as his cum is swallowed neatly.

Breathing heavily, stars bursting behind his eyelids, Bond can only rub the pads of his fingers over Q's scalp. But it seems to be enough. Q kisses his stomach before tucking him back into his trousers.

"Better?" he asks as he straightens and Bond opens his eyes to find him licking his lips. They're red and swollen. Bond wraps a hand in his shirt and pulls him in for a slow kiss. He can feel Q's erection pressing into his leg. "I don't need an orgasm to talk," Q tells him dryly when he reaches, curls their fingers together; and away from his dick.

Bond lets his head fall back, considers him.

"Are you really not going back?" Q asks.

"I told M I needed more time."

But the repeated words make Q frown. "What does that mean?" Understanding is slow to dawn over his face. "More time to make sure it's really me that you love." He swallows. "And not the man you thought I was. No, I understand," he says when Bond attempts to interrupt. "Of course I understand. So, we'll both take the month and see where we are then."

He starts to pull away but Bond keeps him where he is. "I don't want to see where we are."

Q spends a moment being stiff before he allows his body to relax into Bond's. "Then what do you want?"

"I want to leave everything behind, just as we planned."

"Then why—"

"Why should I need time to see if you want the same?"

Q squints at him, searching. "James," he says, soft and broken. "I love you. I think I loved you even before I traded the money for your life. I know it's difficult to believe me—"

"Then don't punish me for needing more time."

Q swallows and after a moment he nods. He moves before Bond can, kisses him gently. Bond's arms slide round his waist, pull him in as the kiss lingers. "Dinner?" he finally murmurs, and it feels natural; normal. "I'm famished."

He can feel Q smile against his lips. "Dinner would be good."

"Come on, then." Bond says as they separate. Q kisses him lightly before he accepts the proffered hand and together, they make their way back to the market.

\--

"Santorini has the best views," Bond says as he sips his martini. They're discussing travel plans; sitting close together, cosy at a small table in the crowded and lively restaurant—half of which is outdoors. It's not one Bond would have chosen, but Q's eyes were drawn to the bright scene as they walked. Specifically, Bond thinks, to the couples dancing; some in time to the lively music and others swaying languidly, oblivious to its pace.

"Your menus," a deep voice interrupts Q's reply. Bond looks up, thanks the waiter as he accepts a menu. The waiter smiles and then directs his gaze to Q.

"And you, sir?"

Q stares at him, and with a slight smile the waiter places the menu in front of him, using his fingers to straighten it.

"There you are, sir," he says. "I hope you are pleased with the choices presented."

"I… yes, thank you."

The waiter nods, turns to Bond to acknowledge him as well before slipping away. Q watches him until he disappears. It takes Bond saying his name to bring his attention back. "You okay?"

"Me? Oh. Yes," Q says, but Bond hears uncertainty. When Q looks down at his menu, Bond takes a surreptitious glance around the restaurant but there isn't anything that should have disturbed him. Except the waiter, but that doesn't make sense.

Bond looks at Q again, finds him closing his menu. He sets it down on the table, having only glanced at it for a moment. Bond feels a prickle of unease at the base of his neck—the one he's become so familiar with since joining 6's ranks. The same one he felt when Q told him he wanted to stay behind in Bregenz.

Q's smile confirms it. Bond looks down at his menu, the anger so bright it sears out everything else. He has no idea—yet—what Q is keeping from him. And no idea how he can continue to be so bloody stupid—

Q's foot taps against his and Bond looks up.

"I love you," Q says, so far from what Bond was expecting that he can feel his spine stiffening in alert. Q's foot is still tapping. Not tapping now, caressing. And his eyes are full of fear. "I think Santorini sounds perfect."

It takes a moment to process the words, Bond's mind fully with the beats against his foot. Three taps. Three caresses and then another tap, tap, tap.

**S.O.S.**

Hiding the surge of adrenaline with an easy smile, Bond picks up his martini again. "We could float round the Greek islands. I have a friend there who sells yachts. Man called Morse."

Q visibly sags. "Yes," he says faintly. "Yes. That's perfect."

Bond takes Q's hand in his. A lover's caress, to an outside view. And it is meant to soothe him as much as it's meant to distract whoever is watching them—the waiter presumably. "I'll ring M as soon as we leave," he says. "Tell her our plans."

As he talks, he taps out a sequence of code against Q's foot, a question: **Waiter?**

 **Blackmail**.

Bond continues the soft caresses while he sips his drink and sorts that out. The man who blackmailed Q? Not the one who was there the night Bond was tortured, surely. He's dead, killed by Bond's fists in Venice, at least one of his men is. If it is the first blackmailer, did Q see his face? Are they the same person? Bond should have asked more questions.

His emotions are once again a liability.

It wasn't Greene; that much is obvious; not anyone Q had on his computer screens while he hacked into 6's files. The waiter's face doesn't belong to any of them.

"Open your menu," he says to Q, who is still watching him with nervous eyes. But Q takes a sip of his papaya-laced drink—the nearest thing to the digestive enzyme drinks he prefers.

"I've already decided." Q taps out M-E-N-U against his foot, but that isn't entirely helpful. Bond doesn't make the request again. Instead, he opens his own menu and pretends to peruse it while taking stock of the restaurant, the people spilling outside; almost indistinct from the market. It will be easy to lose the waiter amongst them. A methodical fade rather than a quick exit.

Because he can't do what he would prefer, and that's to bundle Q in his arms and run.

The waiter reappears, like a spectre. "Have you made your choice?" He's speaking in perfect French, and Bond can't detect an accent otherwise.

"Yes," Q answers without looking at him. "The coconut fish curry, please."

"Very good, sir." A beat too long, the pause afterward and Q looks up to meet his eyes before looking away again.

"And you, sir?"

Bond glances at his menu, as though checking the name of his choice.

"The lamb," he says without looking up. He offers the menu to the waiter, again without a glance as he twines his fingers once more with Q's, smiling at him when he looks up. "Shall we dance?" he asks, bringing Q's hand up to press his lips to the knuckles.

Q hides his surprise well, if not for the blinking. "Yes."

Bond slides out of the booth, pulling Q with him; using his own body as a barrier between Q and the waiter. He can feel the weight of the waiter's eyes on them as they join the merry crowd of dancers.

"Who is he?" Bond asks into his ear soon as Q is snug against his body. "Don't look at him."

He can hear Q's heartbeat, too fast where Bond holds his wrist. "I don't know his name. James... I don't…"

Bond caresses his back. "Take your time."

Breathing in slowly, Q uses his lips as an anchor against Bond's cheek while Bond ignores the tempo of the music and sways them just as so many other couples are doing.

"He never told me his name. But I remember his face. He was there that night… after Le Chiffre tortured you." His muscles are tense with the memory; Bond presses him closer. The immediate anger he feels has to be set away.

"He won't touch you," he says quietly, a promise.

"I'm not worried about me."

"I'll be fine," Bond assures him, pressing his nose to Q's cheek. "I need to find out what he wants."

"There was a note in the menu," Q keeps his voice low and Bond waits for him to continue. "He wants the money back. He said…" Another uneven breath. "… I broke our deal."

The prick of adrenaline is expected, but Bond's voice is calm when he asks, "Did he give you instructions?"

"I have until midnight..."

"No demands to leave with him? Excuse yourself to the toilet?"

"No."

"Mm," Bond murmurs, his mind calculating escape routes. Taking Q out of the equation is by far the best choice. Not a viable option. Not when he has no idea where the waiter is. They're almost outside now, still amongst the happy crowd of dancers. There's a bar to the right, and drunken patrons raucous along its length.

Two men in the middle, glaring at one another. While the one with his back to the dancers waves his drink with an uncoordinated movement as he talks.

The beginnings of an argument.

Bond tightens his arm where he holds Q, and with deliberate movements, shifts them toward the drunken patrons. Q follows his lead, but he isn't trained to do so without question so Bond expects the whispered, "What are you doing?"

"We're starting a brawl. Stay close."

There's a couple—a man and woman—dancing directly behind the drunken aggressor. "Come on," Bond murmurs, keeps Q's hand as they stop dancing and move as though to return to their table. A sharp thrust with his elbow is all it takes to topple the woman into her partner.

It's a perfect game of dominoes as the man stumbles back and collides with the drunken man, who loses his footing and proceeds to give his sparring partner a face full of beer.

It takes only a moment for the surprise to turn to rage. The sodden patron, with a furious shout, lunges.

And in reverse now, the innocent dancer is thrown forward, grapples uselessly for air and pitches into a table of gawking diners. Glasses shatters as the dishes fall to the floor, wine drenching the innocent. The fallen dancer's date cries out in alarm and pushes through the newly formed wall of confused dancers.

The drunken patrons have already collected several others brawlers, all of whom are intent upon smashing anything within reach of their fists.

And with that, Bond can finally gather Q up and get the fuck out.

There are shouts of alarm, and a whistle in the distance—no doubt the local constabulary on their way.

Bond ignores all of them to pick their way through the chaos, Q held close to his side. It's a slow escape, to ensure it doesn't look like escape is what they're after. Made easier by the onlookers gathering from the market; easy to get lost amongst them.

"Do you think he saw us?" Q asks.

The flaw in the plan is that Bond has no way to know. The waiter, whoever he is, must have been following them.

"The house isn't safe," he says, not actually an answer. Perhaps another boat heist will be necessary. There's a small airport on the island as well—

"I activated the distress beacon on my phone," Q scatters his thoughts. Bond stares at him. "I'm sorry," Q says quickly. "I should have asked—"

"No, you're perfect."

Q's surprised smile is considerably buoying. But only for a moment. Because he's seen the same man twice now. Not the waiter, but a man with a distinctive tattoo on his left shoulder. He's been half hidden behind the corner of a building twice now.

"James?"

"We're being followed. Don't tense," Bond tells him as Q does just that. He keeps his face relaxed, eyes taking inventory of the market. More than one flaw in his plan. "We need to get out of here," he keeps his voice low, already picking up the pace.

They veer into one of the shops, Bond smiling brightly at the confused owner as he ushers Q through what is clearly meant to be a patron-free space at the back. A door gives them an exit.

It's clear as Bond pauses to look around. An uncluttered part of the market, close to the harbour. He squeezes Q's hand and pulls him out of the shop.

He's not prepared for the blow to his head. Instead of turning toward his attacker, as he's been trained to do, instinct moves him toward Q, to protect him and that's when the second blow comes. That's when everything goes black.

\--

With a grunt he opens his eyes. The sharp jostle of insistent hands is brings him back to consciousness. He's being half-dragged across a slick floor. His hands are bound and the light is dim. The weight of a concussion makes it difficult to focus, but the panicked realisation that he can't see Q is enough to bring everything into sharp relief.

He turns his head and there's Q, being dragged along as well.

"James," he whispers, gravelly and terrified.

"It's okay," Bond tells him. "You're okay." They won't have long to wait until the cavalry arrives—if Q's alert did its job.

"Don't talk," the man dragging him orders sharply and Bond is shoved; loses his feet for a moment before the man grabs him again and pushes him to the floor, just in front of a column with tall, thick screws at its base. Bond doesn't fight it, gasps at the pain that stabs through his ribs. Grits his teeth to force it away and turns his eyes back to Q. They are more careful with him, because he's the one they need.

He's set beside Bond and then the two henchmen back away. One is the tattooed man from the market. Neither seems to realise the screws are useful. Have no idea that Bond is positioning his bound hands carefully between one of them, tugging slightly to test the strength of the rope.

The screws will work perfectly.

Q's breathing is uneven, his face smudged with dirt. Bond smiles encouragingly but Q doesn't look reassured. Not in the least. He's staring at Bond's face, hungrily as though trying to memorize him. There's a cut along his cheekbone.

Bond can feel a trickle of blood at his own temple. As easy to ignore as the ribs. He keeps his hands where they are between the screws and says to Q, "Whatever they want, don't give it to them." As soon as the words leave his mouth, a kick is aimed at his ribs.

"Don't!" Q cries out as Bond's body jerks. The motion wedges the screw firmly between his wrists, cutting into his skin along the way.

"Don't let them have anything," Bond hisses and is soundly kicked again. The pain is overwhelming, but it's worth it to feel the rope lose some of its tension. He barely feels the metal slicing into his skin.

"Please don't," Q says hoarsely. " _Please_."

"Whatever they say," Bond starts and nearly smiles at the next vicious kick. It hurts to breathe and his head is swimming but he opens his mouth to entice another kick.

"That's enough," a quiet voice interjects. Breathing through the ricocheting pain, Bond looks up. It's the waiter. He smiles. "We need the quartermaster cooperative," he says to his men while he keeps his eyes on Bond. "And that means we need to take good care of his boyfriend. Isn't that right, Q? Or should I use your real name, now that you're no longer in MI6's employ?"

There are tears streaking through the dirt on Q's face.

"Leave him alone," Bond orders, lifting his face. His voice is cold, not a trace of the fear he feels given away. He has no room for it. He concentrates on the rope while he holds the waiter's gaze.

"Oh, I have no plans to hurt him," their captor assures. "I am surprised, I must say, that you allowed him back in your life after such a terrible betrayal, Mr Bond. But then, he does love you so. Not even for Yusef did he beg. It was only you he pleaded for."

"Please don't," Q breathes.

"Just like that," the waiter says, eyes bright with relish.

"Just tell me what you want. I can hack into anything—"

"Q—"

"Let him go, and I'll get you whatever you want."

"Q, don't—" A sharp backhand stops the protest. But only for a moment. Bond spits out the blood gathering in his mouth and then turns his head to blink at Q through the haze. "They'll kill me," he says breathlessly; pain throbs across his entire face now. "They'll pretend to let me go and then they'll kill me. They will kill _both of us_."

"Now, now, Mr Bond," the waiter tsks, holding up his hand to stop another assault from his men. "You wound me. I fully intended to keep my word. The money for your life. If only you had left well enough alone. And yet, here I am, willing to do the same." To Q he says, "I give you my word."

"We've seen your face," Bond says, scraping over the words. He needs more time to release the rope; it's just beginning to fray. "You'll kill us as soon as you have what you want."

"I remember how you begged," the waiter says to Q, ignoring Bond completely now. Q swallows, eyes darting to Bond and back to the waiter. "I know you don't want anything to happen to James. How easily I could have killed him already. But I didn't, did I? I let him go, just as I will again."

When Q only stares, his chest rising and falling too fast, the waiter adds, "You trusted me once."

"You planted Yusef to lie to him," Bond interjects and that gets him the waiter's attention again. And Q's, but that isn't the goal. Bond goes on anyway, "He trusted you once and you pretended to kill Yusef. You would have killed him too if I hadn't—"

He's silenced by the waiter's hand squeezing his cheeks. Bond doesn't struggle, leans in incrementally; only one sharp tug and he'll be free of the rope. The waiter grazes the barrel of his gun along Bond's cheek.

" _No_ ," Q pleads beside them, but the waiter is fully engaged in the temptation to send a bullet through Bond's skull.

Another caress of his gun as he asks softly, "Are you always so contrary, Mr Bond?"

"Always," Bond agrees with a smile. And then before the waiter can react, he butts him back with his forehead, plucks the gun from his hand, and shoots him between the eyes as he tries to catch himself.

The two henchman are just as easily killed, two bullets and it's done. They don't even have time to aim their guns.

Bond lets his breath out as he moves toward Q on his knees. "It's okay," Bond tells him, voice dropping to the cadence he has only ever had occasion to use with this man. Q is shivering, and it takes longer than Bond would like to free him from the ropes but as soon as he is, Q's arms are around his neck, kisses all over his face and Bond can hardly breathe.

It's worth it to feel the strength of Q's grip.

\--

There are agents all over the warehouse. Coroners and photographers, the guards from the safehouse; rerouted.

And M.

But Bond isn't paying attention to any of them. He's focused on the careful hands of the doctor from medical stitching the deep cut along Q's cheek.

"You'll have a scar, I'm afraid," he says as he snips off the end of the thread.

Q doesn't seem concerned, but Bond feels a pang of irritation at himself for not protecting him.

"And now for you, 007," the orderly says cheerfully.

"I'm fine. Check him for concussion."

"They kicked him in the ribs," Q tells the doctor. Bond grimaces, but M chooses that moment to interrupt.

"007, a moment?"

"Check for concussion," Bond repeats to the doctor before moving away to join M. She is watching the coroners zip the waiter's body into the heavy black plastic.

"His name is Charles White," she tells him. "The head of an organization called Quantum, from what we've pieced together."

"You missed him." It's not an accusation but he can see the flit of regret pass over her face.

"We were too focused on Greene. Quantum's intent, I should think."

"He's the last?" Bond asks, eyes straying back to Q.

"There will no doubt be a few more strands to pluck," M tells him. "Minor characters. I assume you won't object to Q spending another few days under guard?"

"We won't be able to use this safe house again."

"We have others."

"Perhaps a nice ski villa this time?" Bond suggests with a small smile.

M's eyes are amused but that's as much as he gets in return. They're quiet for several moments, both of them watching the doctor peering into Q's eyes for signs of concussion. Bond finds it difficult to stay where he is. He has no interest in discussing strategy with the head of MI6. It's Q's injuries he wants detailed.

"You've made your decision," M murmurs.

"A double oh with a liability can't be effective."

The decision was made weeks ago. Even after everything that's happened, nothing has changed. There's only contentment when he considers a life without Mi6. A life _with_ Q.

"There are other ways in which you can be useful."

Bond turns a sardonic smile on her. "A blunt instrument?"

"He's changed you."

As a capitulation, it's rather poor. But Bond finds no offence. "And perhaps you need a talented quartermaster?"

"You don't really believe he'll be content to sail aimlessly with you for the rest of your lives?"

"No," Bond says without a trace of resentment. "I have no doubt you can persuade him to rejoin the cause."

"And you?"

"Not as an agent."

 _Maladjusted young men_ , Q had aptly described the typical agent recruited by MI6. Without ties. That description no longer fits.

"M?" Tanner, appearing at her side. Tentative in that hovering way he has. "Mitchell needs you."

"I'll be in touch," M says to Bond, and it sounds exactly like a threat.

Bond just smiles. He has no doubt she'll have her way; in some capacity. "Ma'am," he offers politely and Tanner ushers her away. Bond returns to Q, who has been watching his interaction with M since the doctor stopped examining him.

The doctor reappears when Bond is two steps away. "007," he says, crisp and expectant, "I am to examine you now."

Bond's pace doesn't change. "Five minutes." It's not really a request and the doctor seems to sense it. He smiles indulgently and fades away. Bond takes Q's face between his hands as soon as he's close enough, to kiss him thoroughly.

Q latches onto his biceps, just as he did the first time after Venice. But this kiss is soft, undemanding. Relief and gratitude between their lips. When they break for air, Bond nuzzles his cheek, happy simply to be able to touch. To feel the warmth of Q's skin.

"Is everything okay?" Q asks quietly, his fingers massaging Bond's muscles.

In answer, Bond kisses him again.

_Epilogue_

Their new boat is larger than the first, better suited to an aimless sail round the world. M, Bond thinks, may be disappointed after all. They haven't discussed her offer yet, which suits him.

He would rather spend their days just as they have been, now that the second safe house is far behind them, endless ocean stretching in every direction. Taking turns at the helm while the other navigates.

Unhurried meals prepared by Bond while Q attempts to distract him with sheer proximity. "I'll slice off a finger if you keep doing that," he points out. Q kisses his neck and doesn't let him go.

"How can I help?"

"I think we're both safer if you stay right where you are."

"It was only a small fire."

"In a very small galley."

"I'll leave the stove to you," Q promises. Another set of soft kisses, the last just below Bond's ear. "I want to help," he murmurs and Bond relents. Not that he had any true intention of refusing him. He balances the end of the knife on the cutting board.

"How are you knife skills?"

"I can probably keep my fingers intact."

Smiling, Bond turns his head to press a kiss to Q's lips before relinquishing the blade.

\--

Bond wakes with a gasp, the panic making his heart pound.

"James?"

Bond closes his eyes, lets Q's palm soothe him as the nightmare fades away. Q is fine, sprawled half over him as he always is. No threat to menace them, no water to take him away.

With a deft movement, Bond pulls Q on top of him so their bodies are tight together. It's a practiced dance, a pattern that soothes them both. Q jerks him languidly while Bond watches his face, traces the healing scar with a thumb, and when Bond is hard, Q sinks down onto his cock.

Hand braced on his chest, Q rides him slowly, Bond watching as long as he can, while the pleasure builds between them. Palms Q's dick at the same languid pace. Until Q stretches over him, when Bond's orgasm is close and only when their lips are locked does he close his eyes and whisper Q's name.

\--

"James, no!" The protest is made through Q's laughter so Bond only smiles and continues toward the edge of the boat. "James! Look at my face. What does it say?"

"It says I know I'm saying no but don't believe me for a second."

"James—" The protest turns into a yelp as Bond tosses him overboard. Q's arms and legs flail wildly before he plunges into the water. Bond grins and dives in after him.

They surface together, Q sputtering through his laughter. "Damn it, James!"

Bond pulls him close, kisses the laughter from his lips. "You're beautiful when you're wet..."

"You're a menace, James," Q sighs, kissing him between the words. "A bloody menace."

"And you love me for it."

Q's smile is contagious. "I do," he says fervently and they're kissing again, their legs scissoring to keep them afloat.

\--

"It is lovely here," Q sighs. They're in bed, Q curled into Bond's side; a pattern not easily forgotten. Santorini is quiet outside their window, the moon spilling through open windows; the breeze a welcome respite from the day's heat.

Bond runs his thumbnail lightly down Q's arm. He smiles to feel the shiver it elicits. Still content, even after weeks of floating aimlessly.

Q's breath is warm against his chest. His fingers are tracing the contours of Bond's abdominal muscles. "Tell me what you're thinking about?"

Still smiling, Bond upsets his perch to hover over him. "Why don't I show you instead?"

Q's blink of surprise slowly melts into a smile. "You never did show me what you can do with your little finger."

"I didn't, did I?"

His eyes bright, Q shakes his head. Bond lets his arms bend, settles his weight against Q and is pleased when Q immediately slides hands up his back, to hold him tight. Bond winds fingers through his hair and kisses him slowly. Rocks his hips to feel Q's dick growing thick beside his own.

"James," Q pleads, when he's breathless and hard beneath him.

"Not yet, darling," Bond murmurs, his rhythm unchanging. Knows Q wants to be stretched and filled. But there's time enough to take it slowly, to make him wait for what he wants.

Time enough for everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for allowing me to share.
> 
> Lovely [art](http://themuller13.tumblr.com/post/145056577076/jabberwonky-monsters-at-our-backs-summary-after) by [themuller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themuller/pseuds/themuller). Thank you!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Illustration for Monsters at Our Backs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7026562) by [procoffeinating](https://archiveofourown.org/users/procoffeinating/pseuds/procoffeinating)




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